


2 AM and I'm Cursing Your Name

by ratherastory



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Ruby has her own ways to keep Sam on the path set out for him. Written for the girlsofspn exchange for lovedlea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2 AM and I'm Cursing Your Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovedlea](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lovedlea).



> Neurotic Author's Note: Okay, so this turned out a lot more... porntastic than I expected. Also, I didn't actually expect to write Sam/Ruby. I was all set to write about Anna, and then I talked to pkwench, and, well... this happened.  
> Neurotic Author's Note #2: This is the first time ever that I've risked writing a 2nd person POV. I usually shy away from such weird modernist things, but apparently that's how this fic wanted to be written. I really hope you like it, lovedlea!  
> Neurotic Author's Note #3: A million thanks to tahirire, embroiderama and yasminke, who stepped up to beta this thing into submission. Between them, they have made this a much better story than I ever could have hoped to produce on my own.

When you find him, he's sitting in a gutter underneath the flickering neon sign of the cheapest dive in town, completely soaked. You've been searching for days, and you're starting to get tired of his disappearing acts. It's been hundreds of years since you've had to worry about something as petty and useless as human emotion, and it's wearisome. Everything with him is an uphill battle, a constant negotiation, placating and wheedling, reasoning and seducing as the situation calls for it. The alley reeks of garbage and urine and stale vomit, but he doesn't seem to care. Somehow you're not surprised. He's always been good at these melodramatic displays of self-loathing, and you're not sure if the fact that he's not doing it on purpose makes things better or worse.

It's been pouring rain for days, now, and you're drenched to the bone yourself, your thin grey t-shirt clinging to the thin frame you've chosen as your latest meatsuit. You suppose you like it well enough: it's shapely, and he seems to like its aspect too. You miss the old one, the blonde: she felt sturdier, had better-developed taste buds —she was how you discovered french fries— but this one has to serve for now. You don't understand his squeamishness about your taking a body who's still alive and aware, but it's important to him; so you made sure this one was brain-dead before possessing her, even got a paper to prove it, and that seems to help. He doesn't know how she got that way, and what he doesn't know won't hurt him. He doesn't refuse to touch you anymore. Anything for the cause.

You stare at him, folded on himself, head on his arms, shivering in the cold rain, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers, and you feel your mouth twist. Pathetic. It's not your place to question, but you do have _carte blanche_ with Sam, and that's something. Whatever the outcome, Sam is your project, your creation. New life, remade from the ashes of the old. All yours.

“Get up.”

There's no answer, not that you were expecting one. He's wallowing, half out of his mind with drink, half out of his mind with grief, and the two halves make for complete absence.

“Get up!”

He stirs, then, raises bloodshot eyes to look up into the rain, blinking under bangs that have stuck to his forehead. The skin around his mouth is blotchy, his face sallow under several days' growth of beard.

“Fuck off,” he manages succinctly.

“I'm not leaving you to drown in this stupid alley. Get up, Sam!” You allow your frustration to seep into your voice. He doesn't need coddling.

He stares at you for a minute, as though your words aren't making sense. “Fuck off,” he repeats. “Busy here.” He takes another drink from the bottle, and the rain runs off it in criss-crossing rivulets, drips down his arm and onto his already-soaked jeans.

“Busy getting drunk and freezing to death in a gutter? Remind me again how that's going to help you kill Lilith. Oh, wait, it's not.” You put an edge in your voice, the hint of a snarl. “Get. The fuck. Up!”

He doesn't answer, just keeps drinking.

“You want revenge, or not? I am giving you a way to do that, and you're pissing it away.”

He shakes his head, keeps drinking. “Not like that. I promised him I wouldn't.”

The rain is pelting your shoulders, and you have to raise your voice to be heard above the downpour. “And what good is your promise to him now? He's rotting down there!”

His head snaps up, eyes blazing with sudden fury, and you know you almost have him. He's on the edge, wavering, anger warring with grief. Anger wins out, and you feel a brief surge of triumph. Anger is easier to manipulate than grief. “Shut up!”

You kick him. You aim for the bottle, catch it a glancing blow, and feel the heel of your boot connect satisfyingly with his collarbone. You don't put your full strength into it, even though you're tempted to break every bone in his worthless body. He reels, releasing the bottle from nerveless fingers, and it goes skittering into the ditch next to him. It doesn't break —doesn't even spill what's left of the contents, and for a moment you wonder if it means something. Then you dart forward and backhand him. This time you hit as hard as you can —you feel the crackle of cartilage under your knuckles, and the familiar coppery scent of blood fills the air.

“You worthless piece of shit!” You haul him up by his shirtfront, in what's probably an unnecessary display of strength. Then again, he needs a reminder that he's alive, that you're the only thing left to cling to. “You think this is my idea of a good time? ” You hit him again, and again, once more, just because. You enjoy watching the blood trickle from his nose, his split lip that's already beginning to swell. He's bloodied, beautiful even like this. “Chasing after your sorry, pathetic ass every time you decide to indulge your self-pity and go on a bender? Fuck you, Sam! You pathetic, sorry excuse for a human being! I'm trying to help, and you're spitting in my face. Why am I wasting my time on you? Tell me! Tell me why I should still help you after all this.”

He's dazed, eyes a little unfocused after the blows to the head, but he shakes his head. “No, Dean...”

“Fuck Dean! He left you here alone, with no one but a demon to watch your back! You're really going to sit there and do this to yourself for _him_? Fuck him!” It's a risk, but he'll rise to the bait, you know it.

He's on his feet in a flash, and you let him slam you back against the crumbling brick of the building behind you. The bar's neon sign flickers and hums above your head, and your teeth click together under the impact. Sam's breath is sour with alcohol, hot against your ear.

“Don't talk about him.”

The quiet words send a chill running down your spine. He's got you pinned against the wall, the brick rough against the skin of your lower back, one leg thrust between yours for leverage. His hands wrap easily around your arms, thin as they are, his thumbs dig cruelly into your biceps. If you were human, they would leave bruises. You're a thousand times stronger than he is, but in this skin, you manage to feel small, weak under the onslaught. It's a new feeling, not entirely unpleasant. Your lips part in a smile, and you run the tip of your tongue over your teeth, thrust against his leg.

“That's it, Sammy,” you murmur. You let out a sharp moan when he shoves you roughly back up against the wall, growls at you because he hates it when you call him that. It's why you do it. “Come on,” you urge. You run your hands up along his chest, feeling the muscles there that, despite months of self-hatred and abuse, are still as firm as ever. He's getting stronger, thanks to your influence, in spite of his best attempts to self-destruct. “Come on... do it!”

“Fuck you!” he tries to pull away, but you've got a proper hold on him now.

You slide his own knife out of his pocket, a wicked little switchblade that opens with a snick, audible even in the torrential downpour. There's no leverage now to cut your arm so instead you wriggle closer to him, bring the knife up to score a line just below your collarbone, down over your breast. You can sense his hesitation, but the desire is there, too —the sheer, raw need that's constantly simmering right below the surface.

He doesn't resist when you clamp a hand to the back of his head and press his face to the cut. You shudder at the sensation of his tongue, lambent and rough, lapping at your skin. The knife falls with a clatter you barely notice, and Sam's free hand works quickly at the buttons on the tight pants you're wearing. His fingers slip past your waistband, and his breath hitches when he realizes you've got nothing on underneath.

He moves his head up to kiss you, the taste of your own blood both familiar and alien on your tongue, copper and sulphur, death and life, and you moan and thrust against his hand as he begins moving it just right, fingers crooked at an angle that has you seeing stars after just a few moments. He's saying something, you realize through the haze of blood and want and need, a constant string of nonsense, of denial as much as anything else. All this time, and he's still protesting even as he sucks at your breast, and so you press closer against him, silencing him with your body, your blood. You unzip his fly, find him hot and hard and desperate, and it's child's play to make him think it's his decision when he forces your pants down over your hips, tugs them off entirely, and lifts you bodily into his arms.

You wrap your legs around his waist, let your head fall back, allow him to set the pace. He's still sucking at your collarbone, as much marking you as his as anything else. You have no need to breathe, but even so this body remembers what this is supposed to be like, and you find yourself panting encouragements, urging him on, your moans getting so loud that you wonder that no one has heard you or tried to interrupt. Another moment and even these thoughts are banished as he moves faster, rougher, his breathing harsh in the night, hitching on what might almost be a sob. He begins to lose his rhythm, hips stuttering, and you shove your wrist into his mouth, forcing him to bite down as he climaxes, sending another rush of blood into his mouth and sending you rushing over the edge so unexpectedly that you extinguish the guttering neon sign above your head with barely a thought.

When you're both done you hold him in your lap and pet his hair, wipe back the tears and the blood smeared on his face, let the rain wash all of it away.


End file.
